(We Can All) Sleep Sound Tonight
by Sandrine Shaw
Summary: "Man of Steel makes a Miracle Return", the 'Daily Planet' writes in large letters on its front page. Lex rips the page off and clenches it in his fists, making a small ball of paper he angrily throws across his cell. Later, he picks it up and smooths out the creases as good as he can, pinning the crinkled page to his wall.


**(We Can All) Sleep Sound Tonight**  
by Sandrine Shaw

He dreams in shades of red and blue.

Wakes up drenched in sweat, panic in his throat and fists clenching the sheets, Clark Kent's name on his lips.

Blood-shot eyes look at him from the mirror, and he bares his teeth and pulls a grimace at himself, alienated by his subconscious unrest. It makes no sense. A creature of his blood, of his creation, brought a god to his knees. Even though there's pride in that thought, the victory doesn't taste as sweet and pure as it should.

Lex has no regrets, no remorse for the disaster he wrought, no trepidation about the bell he rang. It's simple: Superman was hailed as a god and all gods must fall. It was as necessary as it was inevitable.

Still, there's a part of him – the last, forgotten remnants of the hopeful, bright-eyed boy his father's contempt couldn't shatter – that had secretly hoped that he'd be proven wrong, that infinite power and infinite goodness weren't necessarily mutually exclusive; a part of himself who'd looked at the _Daily Planet_ 's obituary with a strange sense of grief.

He takes a deep breath and pulls himself together, putting on a smile for the man in the mirror and whoever else is watching. Time to heed his father's lesson: All little boys must grow up and face the harsh realities eventually. Such is life.

* * *

Arkham is a place of nightmares, for people who are afraid of darkness and spiderwebs and the screams of crazy people echoing through neon-lit hallways. Not Lex, whose nightmares wear designer suits and his father's face contorted in drunken rage, telling him how worthless he is.

Someone like Bruce Wayne, whose daddy died trying to save his family, will never understand the demons that haunt Lex; ergo he can never really induce any fear in him, no matter how much he waves that Bat brand of his around and spits out threats.

The cell they stick him in is small and dark and it stinks of piss. The light at the ceiling flickers. On and off. On and off. On and off. It's as far away from his opulent mansion or the minimalist designer loft at the top floor of the LexCorp Tower as it gets, but it feels like he's just exchanged one prison for another – a less comfortable, more dangerous one perhaps, but his nightmares remain the same, following him wherever he goes.

* * *

They come from the sky like a rain of fire, leaving the kind of destruction in their wake that makes Zod look like a impotent little bully from elementary school.

Through the steel bars of his window, Lex watches smoke rise over Metropolis, the Bat-Signal glowing against the dark clouds, the water rising in the bay, a flash of lightning zipping along the streets.

"Are you proud of me, father?" he whispers into the night. "Look what I've done."

There is no answer, but then, he's given up waiting for one.

The devils come from the sky and all the gods are dead.

* * *

 _Man of Steel makes a Miracle Return_ , the _Daily Planet_ writes in large letters on its front page.

Lex rips the page off and clenches it in his fists, making a small ball of paper he angrily throws across his cell. Later, he picks it up and smooths out the creases as good as he can, pinning the crinkled page to his wall.

Superman's face stares back at him, his features captured in a hard, unforgiving expression. He looks the same as ever. You'd think coming back from the dead would leave more of an impression, be visible somehow, but he's the same old Superman, unchanged by time and tragedy and disaster. Lex rubs his palm over his stubbly, shaved head and feels a fierce surge of jealousy choke him.

* * *

In the general confusion an alien invasion brings, there's a mass break-out from Arkham.

Just as well. Lex was getting bored sitting in his cell and staring at Clark Kent's motionless, half-crumpled face.

The asphalt is glistening with rain when the inmates rush out of the asylum's heavy iron gates, bloodied footprints immediately washed away by the water. "Ah, freedom," a lanky guy with a manic smile exclaims, stretching his arms as if _freedom_ 's a physical thing he can touch.

Lex snorts. "Are you really that simple? Hasn't anyone told you that freedom only exists in your head?" He reaches out and pointedly pokes his finger against the guy's forehead, once, twice, three times. "So I'm asking you, are you really free? Or maybe you've been free all along, hmm?"

All he receives in response is a confused look, and Lex moves along before Tall, Dark and Stupid can get his bearings and decide to take the arm off the guy who called him simple and stuck his finger in his face.

Unlike most of his fellow inmates, Lex sticks out like a sore thumb among Gotham's dark alleys and run-down buildings. He steals a bottle of cheap vodka from a blind, homeless guy and climbs to a rooftop. The alcohol burns down his throat as he sits cross-legged in the rain, wet to the bone, contemplating being free of bars and prison cells but not of legacy and false gods, waiting for one particular god to make an appearance.

He doesn't have to wait for long.

* * *

A rush of colors against the blackness of the night, red cape swirling around the descending god like a halo, Lex finds himself pinned to the wet, rough brick wall with a large hand across his throat. If Superman wanted, he could crush his windpipe like an tiny, defenseless insect under his finger – in fact, it probably takes a lot of focus not to accidentally kill him. Lex isn't sure if he appreciates the effort Clark takes not to end his life.

When he had Clark on his knees in front of him, head bowed, he reached out in appreciation and couldn't quite make himself touch him, half-afraid that a burst of lightning would strike him down for the blasphemy of daring to lay his hands on a god.

Now his hands clench around Clark's forearm, and he feels the muscles rippling under the soft material of his suit, feels the warmth of skin seeping through. Despite all that tightly coiled strength, Superman feels human under his touch, flesh and blood instead of steel. The thought is intoxicating and frightening at the same time.

Clark's hand falls away from his throat as Lex's fingers tighten, unwilling to let go just yet.

"What do you want?" Clark sounds frustrated, but most of all he sounds tired. He doesn't understand. Still – even now – he doesn't understand what should be obvious.

"I want for the people to _grow up_ and realize they can't rely on gods and heroes. To understand that putting your faith in some kind of father figure to save them will only lead to pain and betrayal."

"How will they realize that if they're all _dead_ because you brought upon the end of the world?"

Lex waves it off. "A minor obstacle."

"You're insane."

"Some would say I'm the only sane one."

Somewhere on the horizon, there's noise and fire and explosions, startling them. Clark half-turns his head and listens to something Lex' human ears can't hear, his attention abruptly torn away from Lex. To be the sole focus of that godly attention for a moment only to have it slip away... the sensation of loss is almost physical.

Clark's eyes flicker back to him, but it's not the same. Duty calls and he's already elsewhere, in thought if not in body. He takes in a deep breath and shakes his head.

"This isn't over," he says, a promise wrapped in a threat, before he flies off in a flurry of red and blue.

* * *

The Bat is a whole lot less forgiving than Superman. Perhaps that, in the end, is what divides man from god.

Wayne glowers through his mask and snarls at him, and for a moment Lex is genuinely afraid that he'll break him apart. He looks like he could, like he wouldn't even break into a sweat, like his anger could smash Lex to pieces and shatter him like a mirror.

Clark steps between them, his hand right where the bat emblem is sitting on the black armor covering Wayne's chest, holding him back. Like a fucking savior coming to Lex's rescue, and in this moment, there's a part of Lex that fiercely loathes him.

"Don't," he commands, and of course Wayne obeys. The Bat vigilante, brought to heel like a good little puppy. They've come a long way since Lex introduced them at the charity gala, but even now they're still entirely wrapped up in each other, dismissing Lex like he's not even there, same as they did that night at LexCorp.

Lex narrows his eyes at Wayne across Clark's broad, cape-covered back. "What, that's it? Am I not worth your anger? Didn't I —"

"Shut up," Clark snaps, turning away from Wayne towards Lex, who flinches under the heat of the blue-eyed glare that makes him instinctively do as he's told. Then, with finality, "I'm taking you back to Arkham."

Lex doesn't care to object.

* * *

The world doesn't end.

That's the thing about humankind: They're fairly resilient. They survived centuries of war and terror and depression, civil unrest after civil unrest, climate change, pollution, disease, all the small and big disasters they brought upon themselves. They survived Zod and Doomsday. They survive Darkseid, just like they will survive whatever else the universe throws at them, until there's the one thing they won't survive.

From the barred windows of his Arkham cell, Lex watches a new day dawn over Gotham.

There's a familiar rustle behind him, and when he turns around, it doesn't surprise him to find Superman standing there, arms crossed and a forbidding look on his face, like a fucking statue.

"You're still alive, I see." He feels no particular curiosity for the whys and hows. He's already bored by the details, those pesky recounts about today's heroics and casualties that will doubtlessly be plastered all over the papers tomorrow.

Clark rises an eyebrow. "Are you disappointed?"

"Hmm. Well." He shrugs. "You're not infallible, and I was the one who made the world see it. That's quite enough for me."

He remembers a rooftop, a long time ago. _If God is all powerful, he cannot be all good, and if he is all good, he cannot be all powerful._ Superman isn't all powerful, Lex has made sure people saw that. Whether or not he's all good remains to be seen; only time will tell.

There's a small speck of what could be dirt or dried blood marring Clark's cheek. Lex licks his thumb and reaches up to wipe it off, expecting him to flinch away. But Clark permits the touch, tender skin dipping under the pressure, and the blemish fades and disappears.

"There. All new." Lex lets his hand linger. "Perhaps you're not a god after all."

The smile on Clark's lips is tainted with bitterness, and Lex wants to trace it. "I never claimed to be a god. I didn't ask for a monument. Or a pedestal to be put on."

"Perhaps. You still needed to be pushed off. You understand that, don't you?"

If he does, he isn't quite ready to admit it, to concede that Lex ultimately did him a favor. He steps back, dislodging Lex' touch as he puts some distance between them, and the old anger's back in his eyes. "You almost ended the world twice just to prove a point."

Lex moves further into the cell to sit on his cot, leaning back on his arms and staring up at Superman. From this angle, he's even more imposing, taking up so much space. Man or god, what does it matter? " _Almost_ being the key word there. The world's still turning and turning and turning and turning and turning..."

He lies back and lets his voice trail off, his finger making circles in the air to mimic Earth's rotation. And closes his eyes and pretends that he doesn't notice when Clark leaves.

"Round and round and round," he whispers quietly.

* * *

He dreams in shades of blue and red. He wakes up smiling.

End.


End file.
